


The Prince and the Pearl

by Samirant



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, fairytale AU, my great whale
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-14 19:08:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29796513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samirant/pseuds/Samirant
Summary: You think you know the story.
Relationships: Jaime Lannister/Brienne of Tarth
Comments: 20
Kudos: 95





	The Prince and the Pearl

_Everything changed when their mother died._

_Jaime was only seven when it happened, only just grown enough to know that nothing would be the same, that the magic in their household had died with her. His father, King Tywin of the Westerlands, never smiled again. The servants, once content and satisfied, became haunted and sorrowful._

_Cersei turned cruel._

_He knew her feelings towards Tyrion were far harsher than any babe deserved. Jaime loved his little brother, and he loved his sister, but finding peace between the two was far more than a seven year old, an eight year old, or nine year old could manage._

_Aunt Genna came to stay on their tenth nameday._

_And everything changed again._

###### 

“Did you sleep well, my dear?” Genna asked with her sweetest smile as a servant set a plate before her. 

“Oh, I did,” Princess Margaery Tyrell replied, her eyes lighting up. “I’ve never stayed in a more luxurious room, nor do I think I ever could again.”

She turned to Jaime as he lathered honey on an oat roll. “Can you imagine? Twenty feather mattresses, twenty down blankets and twenty furs! I don’t think I’ve ever felt more decadent in my entire life.”

Jaime stuffed the bread into his mouth and hummed noncommittally. Across from him, Tyrion smiled into his cup. Their little cousin Cleos stared at everyone, wide-eyed, and hunched into his seat when Margaery’s gaze passed him by. Genna let out a lengthy, almost silent breath. At the head of the table, King Tywin grumbled and looked back down at his plate, attacking it with renewed fervor. 

Margaery looked at them each in turn, sensing that she’d said something wrong, though it was entirely unclear what it was.

“Your grace, my lady.” Margaery glanced at them both, her expression a touch eager. “I cannot begin to thank you-”

“Yes, dear, of course,” Genna said, a little distantly, and waved at a servant. Her wordless command to leave was promptly followed. “We are so very glad you were able to visit us for a time, it’s such a shame that it is coming to a close.”

“A… close?” The girl stammered, a pretty blush on her cheeks. Her father had instructed her to pack her belongings for the duration, but she’d only been there three days. _Threes_. Margaery considered the sudden thought and she struggled to keep her expression from showing her rapidly dawning dread. She scrambled to recover. “Forgive me, my lady, but have I done something wrong? I meant no offense.”

A bit of warmth came back to Genna’s smile, though she appeared very decided. “No, my dear, but we can hardly keep you from your father for long and, as Princess Cersei has been away for quite some time, we simply don’t have the ladies-in-waiting that could make your stay more pleasurable.”

Margaery gave Jaime a brief, imploring look. Surely he knew the enjoyment of platonic company was not what had brought her to their castle. He was a crown prince just past his twentieth nameday, a prospect far more _pleasurable_ than sitting around comparing embroidery with a passel of bannermen's daughters. 

If Margaery thought he would speak in her favor, she soon found herself very disappointed. And gods help her, she was still trying to untangle the whole exchange as her carriage pulled away from the castle not an hour later. 

###### 

“Such a pity. She certainly seemed an appropriate choice,” Genna lamented as they watched from a window of the castle. The carriage was far enough away that it had begun to blend into the landscape around it, soon to be a speck in the distance and then gone. 

“She smiled too much,” Tyrion drolly remarked, turning away. 

“How can one smile too much? How could you even tell? We hardly spoke to the girl,” Jaime asked, following after his brother. He barely noticed that Cleos stayed behind at the window, his thin fingers curving over the ledge as he peered into the distance. 

“Exactly. What was she smiling at? No one goes around looking that pleased all the time.”

Genna huffed at her younger nephew and tousled his hair as she walked past him. “I can’t say you’re wrong.”

“That’s because I’m never wrong. Look back on it, you’ll agree with me.”

The three made their way down the halls of the castle, returning to the great room where Tywin was receiving notices and ravens. When he didn’t acknowledge his family past a quick look in their direction and then returning his attention to the maester at his side, they considered themselves dismissed. 

Jaime, mildly disappointed, accepted a kiss on the cheek from his aunt as she left to meet with the castellan. Tyrion gestured to the library and Jaime agreed with a sigh. 

“How long has it been now?” Tyrion didn’t seem to really want an answer, but he was a good brother to allow Jaime to express his discontent. “A year? More?”

“More,” Jaime replied. More than a year since his twin had bothered to send a message in their direction, or at least his. The girl who had promised him once upon a time that he was the other half that made her whole, gone silent and distant in Dorne. Ten years had passed since a ship bedecked with their kingdom’s banners stole her from their shores, with each year after the next seeing less and less of her contemplation for the people left behind in Casterly Rock. 

“I imagine marriage and motherhood take up a great deal of her days,” Tyrion said, rather graciously on behalf of someone who hated him for simply existing. 

Jaime gave him a wry smile. “You are far too good, brother.”

“You take that back. Right now.”

They exchanged a chuckle and made their way to the library. Tyrion soon settled upon his favorite seat, a well-thumbed book in his hands, while Jaime pulled out a sheaf of maps. He wouldn’t dare mark his father’s collection with a quill, but in his mind he drew a significant strike through the lands of Highgarden. Another eligible princess come and gone, and so few realms left to consider. 

There was still the North, he supposed, though neither of the Stark girls were anywhere near coming of age. There was a minor house there, the Mormonts, that could potentially be considered high born enough to be married to a crown prince. Genna, however, shook her head when it was suggested. She wanted a true princess, she’d said, leaving her nephews baffled at her firmness and refusal to elaborate further on the subject. Granted, Jaime was glad for the delay; he wasn’t sure he was ready to marry at all. He was well aware, however, of how little choice he had in the matter. 

Essos was a possibility, as was Dorne. He suspected, however, that his aunt didn’t want to entangle their family with the southronmost kingdom any further than necessary. Cersei’s presence there was enough for an alliance, nevermind Genna’s contempt for the girl.

Jaime ruefully wound up the maps and put them away. He could hardly blame Genna, though in the beginning it had been an awful blow to see his sister sent away. Despite it being a sound decision, both in forming an alliance with the Dornish and separating the twins so Tywin’s line of succession was made clear, Jaime knew those weren’t the reasons that Cersei had been banished from the castle. 

He could clearly recall the fury on Genna’s face when she’d found them, Jaime pulling Cersei away so that she wouldn’t strike Tyrion again. Only three at the time, the poor lad had no idea what he had done to flame Cersei’s ire, could not comprehend that it was the circumstances of his birth, nothing he could control, that made his sister savage and cold-hearted. The sounds of his woeful cries only stoked her anger and Jaime’s attempts to separate them were for naught when Genna came upon the tableau.

She’d scooped Tyrion up in a motherly embrace, surely the first Tyrion had ever felt in his life, and comforted him. The look she’d given Cersei, still defiant Cersei, promised punishment. Jaime shrank away, humiliated at his inability to protect either of his siblings. 

They expected missed suppers, curtailed entertainment. Cersei was sent to foster in Dorne instead. 

Perhaps Genna suspected their strong attachment - unfulfilled, but simmering under the surface even then - as well. It made her cautious enough that when Cersei’s wedding to Oberyn Martell took place, she convinced Tywin that the Starks had the right idea of it, that a Lannister too should always remain in Casterly Rock. 

Thus at Casterly Rock Jaime stayed, receiving letters only from Tyrion as he complained about the unbearable heat, the ostentatiousness of the wedding and Cersei’s vicious reaction when he arrived, the lone brother at their father’s side. She didn’t write to Jaime for a full six months after. 

Ten long years marked the time since he’d watched the ship take his sweet sister away, the letters that maintained their connection coming fewer and fewer. It was not only distance that caused them to grow apart, but it appeared Cersei now deemed the whole matter acceptable, necessitating that Jaime accept it as well. 

He found it difficult to remember what she looked like. After so much time, even when looking in the mirror, Jaime saw only himself. 

###### 

The days and weeks passed as they always did when there wasn’t a visiting princess in residence. Jaime rose early in the morning, practised with the sword master as the sky bloomed from purpled red to a swirl of yellow and blue, broke fast with his family and then either stayed with his father to receive notices or observed his aunt’s review of the castle with the castellan and servants. When they released him, he’d take a horse to conduct his own survey of the surrounding lands, a pair of Kingsguard following dutifully behind; he knew his father would expect a full report when they met again. 

Tyrion sometimes came along, though his brother vastly preferred to stay within the castle walls, quietly meeting with the master of whispers and completing his own mysterious tasks. In the late afternoon, Jaime would join him in the library, studying the lesser financial accounts or, more happily, perusing the histories of battles past. Jaime read those mainly for pleasure, slow reader though he was, but also so he could impress upon his father his own knowledge of battle tactics. 

It was all rather monotonous, but content. Theirs was a peaceful land, earned by his father’s once-vicious subjugating and quelling of unruly houses, unlike the other kingdoms that still had rebellions stirring on a disquieting basis. It was little wonder that other rulers sent their daughters in hopes of making one of them Jaime’s future queen.

He was far out in the fields when he saw the storm clouds rolling in the distance, opposite the seas. Urging his mount along, Jaime made his way back to the castle, noting how the people of Lannisport had seen what he had and were shuttering their shops. They paused briefly to give the expected bow or curtsey to their crown prince as he trotted past with his guard and quickly resumed their work. 

Heavy drops started to fall from the sky when Jaime arrived back in the castle, hastening his handing off the reins to a young squire. He ran inside just as a torrent broke free of the flashing and rumbling clouds. 

“Hells, that came on fast,” Jaime said, mostly to himself before finding that his brother had come to meet him in the front hall. 

“Yes, curious,” Tyrion remarked. Turning his back on the thundering rain to reveal a knowing expression, he went on. “You won’t believe what I’ve just heard. The weather is quite appropriate if you think about it.”

Eager to rid himself of his damp doublet and breeches, Jaime gestured for Tyrion to continue and they headed toward his chambers. 

“Father’s heard word from the Stormlands,” Tyrion said as they climbed the stairs. “The Baratheons have actually done it, the stupid bastards.”

“Oh, that can’t be good.” 

Jaime grimaced, already prepared to hear the worst. They’d heard word nearly a moon past that King Steffon Baratheon had gone in his sleep. Nothing suspicious about it; his time had simply come as far as anyone was concerned. The King of the Stormlands had outlived more battles and near drownings in his time than a person had any right to face and he deserved a quiet surrender unto death in his old age. But in his passing, the Fire of the Stormlands went dark and dormant, an inauspicious sign. 

Shaking his head, Jaime asked, “They didn’t like taking on Prince Robert as successor?”

“Of course not! Who would want that drunken letch ruling over them? If the gods haven’t chosen him, why should anyone else?” Tyrion jumped onto Jaime’s bed and settled against his pillows, entwining his hands on his stomach. “Skirmishes have already begun, some men for Stannis, others for Renly. Robert’s got some of his men in the mix, but I’m sure that’s only for appearances sake - the man is a shadow of what he once was.”

“Damned fools,” Jaime muttered. 

“Unquestionably,” Tyrion drawled. “They’ll tear apart their lands and destroy their people before all is said and done. Father’s already drafting a statement of neutrality. No need to bring that nonsense in this direction.”

“Nevermind that he hates the Baratheons to begin with.”

“That too.”

“You won’t try to kill me when father dies, will you? Take the crown for yourself?” Jaime tossed the towel he’d been using to dry off over in his brother’s direction. Tyrion fumbled as he caught it and made a face as he threw it aside. “Though you’d be a good king, should you choose to do so.”

“I’m no usurper. Besides, if father died and then I killed you, he’d come back from the dead to kill _me_ and then he’d retake his throne and rule forever. Doubtful that our people would particularly enjoy that.”

Jaime looked down, obligation urging him to say, “Father is a good king.”

“Said goodness is debatable, considering how his reign began. The people have too much fear of our father, his ascent was far too bloody despite the peace that has followed. But with you, perhaps they’ll follow out of more positive compulsions, if you give them such reason to believe. I can see it, even if you can’t.”

Smiling broadly to cover his unease, Jaime finished getting dressed. “I am only the crown prince, I have no place to give them anything but what father allows. All the same, I’ll be glad that it doesn’t come bearing down on my shoulders anytime soon. And that you’ll stay on as my hand when it does.”

“What the hells do you think I’m doing now?”

Tyrion’s offended expression had him chuckling all the way to dinner.

###### 

“I’m sure your brother has already informed you of the latest message from the Stormlands,” Tywin finally said as they sat around the fire after supper. The storm continued to rage outside their walls and they had joined together before the hearth to ward off the chill. Genna pressed a goblet of wine into her brother’s hands, but he only glowered at the flames. “You’ll find ruling doesn’t mean carting off into battle at the first temptation. No good will come of this civil war, and none of those idiotic Baratheons will rule well, whichever of them ends up cutting down his brothers for the throne. What is it that I have told you?”

“‘A man who says he is king is no king at all,” Jaime and Tyrion repeated dutifully. Cleos mouthed along; if he spoke, it was hidden by the deeper timber of his cousins’ voices. 

Tywin nodded shortly, satisfied. Angling his face away, Tyrion waggled his eyebrows at Jaime. 

Genna covered Jaime’s answering chortle by saying, “I do feel for the people. You have friends in the bannermen there, don’t you, brother?”

“Old comrades of long ago wars,” Tywin agreed without anything that could be described as affection. It simply wasn’t his way. “They’ll suffer for the sake of Baratheon pride, but that is their quarrel, not mine.”

If he had anything further to add, it was interrupted by a steward knocking at the door, the man’s face tight in constertation when it was opened by one of Genna’s maids. “Begging your pardon, your grace, but there is a contingent of men approaching the castle from the east.”

Tywin stood smoothly, placing his goblet aside. “They sent no message ahead of them?”

“If they had, it is difficult to tell in this weather,” the steward answered apologetically. “The maester claims we won’t be able to send or receive any missives until the storm abates.”

“How many men?”

“No more than a dozen.”

Tywin was quiet for a moment more and then nodded. “Allow them in.”

Jaime jumped from his chair to trail after his father as he headed toward the front hall. Tyrion and Genna were close behind. “You’ll receive an unknown group at this time of night?”

“We can take a dozen men easily,” Tywin replied. “That aside, no one in their right mind would attack in this weather, nor be so obvious in their approach. It is something else, I’m certain.”

He couldn’t contend the logic, so Jaime took his place at his father’s right side, while Genna took his left, Tyrion stood next to her and Cleos hid partly behind her skirts. After several minutes they heard the rain-muffled sound of the portcullis rising, followed by the clattering of horses' hooves. A thrill of excitement ran through him, for no reason Jaime could discern other than eagerness for something new and perhaps mysterious. 

The servants pulled open the doors to reveal an approaching older knight, his beard soaked and scraggly from the rain. The men behind him remained sheltered in the eaves just beyond the door and came no closer. 

The knight bowed deeply to Tywin, his voice deep and apologetic as he said, “We ask you to forgive us, your grace, for our appearance and our mode of arrival. Our travels have been fraught and demanded reconsideration on how we sought your attention. I am Ser Goodwin of Tarth, and we beg your favor.”

“State your purpose,” Tywin commanded. 

“I come with word from Lord Selwyn, Evenstar of Tarth, as well as his daughter, Lady Brienne-”

“Good gods, another princess,” Tyrion muttered, though not softly enough to be unheard. Tywin and Genna both gave him a sharp glance. It kept them from observing Jaime’s own silent, resigned sigh of agreement with his brother. 

Ser Goodwin paused briefly, clearly puzzled. “No, not a princess. I don’t… No, my Lord. The wedding did not take place, so she remains Lady Brienne.”

No one said anything for several seconds, only exchanging confused glances and, in Tywin’s case, a firm frown at his youngest son.

“A wedding?” Genna prompted their visitor. 

“To Renly Baratheon,” Goodwin explained slowly. “Forgive me again, but did you not receive our message?”

“Perhaps we’ll find the sodden scroll on our doorstep once the storm has passed,” Genna said courteously. “Please do continue.”

Ser Goodwin let out a frustrated breath. “Yes, that does seem to fit into the turbulent nature of our travels. You see, the storm broke above us just as we entered the Westerlands and it has been madness since. We lost our lady’s carriage over a rock face when heavy thunder spooked the horses-”

“My goodness, is she all right?” Genna exclaimed.

“Yes, my lady, we were lucky that she was not riding in it at the time. Regretfully, we cannot say the same for Septa Roelle, who was traveling with us.” Honestly, Jaime didn’t think the man looked very sorry about _that_ at all. “We attempted to outride the storm, but, well, you see.”

Goodwin gestured a regretful wave over his person and then back at the men still outside the doorway. It seemed to remind him of his purpose because he waved at one of them to come closer, a thick and long-limbed fellow with blonde hair plastered to his forehead, eyes cast down, tunic and breeches soaking wet-

That wasn’t a man. 

Jaime started in surprise when the girl - obviously a girl now, but perhaps only in the most generous of terms - crossed her arms over her chest to control a deep shiver in order to bow deeply before his father. 

“Your grace,” she said with a throaty voice that told of an oncoming chill, “we beg your favor. My father, the Evenstar of Tarth, has sent me here to beg sanctuary from the unrest in our lands. My brother Galladon remains at his side, but he hoped that you would remember your acquaintance and grant me safety.”

She gave another awful shiver, at which Genna turned to her maids and ordered them to bring warmed blankets for the waterlogged girl before them. At Tywin’s allowance, she approached Lady Brienne and threw a blanket around her shoulders, rubbing at her arms. “You poor thing, it has been a mare of a day, has it not?”

“Several,” Lady Brienne replied, her teeth chattering. 

Genna looked back at them over her shoulder, a relieved smile coming on when Tywin gave a curt assent. “Let’s take you up to a room and get you changed.”

“My belongings were lost in the accident, my lady, I apologize.”

“Nothing to apologize for, though…” Genna leaned back and, like everyone else, considered the breadth of her shoulders, her good head of height above the older woman. “I’m sure we’ll figure something out. Come along.” 

Jaime watched as Genna attempted to place a matronly arm around the girl’s shoulders, found her height lacking, and instead put it around her meager waist and showed her to the stairs. Cleos watched the mismatched pair depart, looked back at his uncle and evidently decided he’d rather scamper after his mother. The girl looked even more burly and oversized with Cleos’ slight form directly behind her. 

_That_ was to be Renly Baratheon’s bride? Jaime wasn’t sure who got the worse end of that deal. 

Or it was no deal at all anymore, Jaime remembered as he turned back to the conversation that Goodwin and his father had resumed. Goodwin was opening a leather satchel at his belt, pulling out a somewhat damp set of papers with the Evenfall crest stamped on, and handed it to a servant to hand to his father. Tywin looked at it with a small measure of distaste, but seemed to have come to terms with how his evening had been interrupted.

“I’ll review it in the morning,” Tywin said with the faintest of beleaguered sighs. “After it’s dried.”

He motioned to the servants in the hall, giving terse orders to oblige Goodwin and his men. Goodwin was all politeness and grateful words, which Tywin waved away. “Go, we’ll discuss all else in the morning.”

The three Lannister men watched their unanticipated guests get hustled away to the comfort of the visitors quarters. Tyrion drew closer after their father summarily departed, toeing the puddles left behind by the men from Tarth.

“I suppose so much for staying out of that nonsense,” Tyrion remarked mildly.

That, Jaime had a feeling, was an understatement.


End file.
